I know I've complained before about the effects that prescription medicines have on my imagination and/or writing.  I guess it's an old refrain, but this time seems to be much worse. I'm terribly afraid of sounding like I'm just whining for sympathy, and tell myself  'buck up, little camper!' But that is turning out to be far more difficult than it sounds.

Instead of doubting my imagination, I'm doubting everything about myself. I look at all the wonderful books on my favorite shelf and know that I'll never live up to what's already up there. I think about the authors that I know personally, who are wonderful people that I wish all the very best things in the world, and wonder why they would want to know me.

They say my body will get used to this in time, but it sure doesn't feel like it at the moment. Right now it feels like I should go hide in a corner. My self confidence has plummeted, and my excruciating shyness is returning in tsunami style waves. Worst of all, I'm not even sure it's the drugs. I'm terrified it might be my dream of being a writer slipping away, or the realization that I will never have the talent that it requires. I desperately wonder if I'm the only one who wades through outside influences like these, ones that I have no control over - ones that I have to have in order to live.

So forgive me while I take a short hiatus. I may get a bug up my nose once in a while and post anyway. Heck, my mood might change dramatically within the hour, and I'll erase this whole post. But I've got to give myself some time off to just be, without trying to be something different than what I already am, if that makes any sense at all. I've got to talk to my doctor about these side effects, and pray that's all they are.

They say to be great one should suffer for one's art. If that's true, I should be legendary...



Maybe there's a book in this somewhere.